


haste denies all acts their dignity

by sangriche



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Will Graham, Episode: s02e08 Su-zakana, First Kiss, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, POV Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s02e08 Su-zakana, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29773449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangriche/pseuds/sangriche
Summary: That time Will wanted to kill Clark Ingram because it might taste like killing Hannibal. Or, the time Hannibal wanted to kiss Will in front of that horse-viscera covered social worker so bad it made him look stupid. But what if he actually did?
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74





	haste denies all acts their dignity

“Is your social worker inside that horse?”

It takes every ounce of resolve to choke down the laugh rising in my chest when Will Graham asks Peter Bernadone that. Rarely did I find much amusing, but occasionally, circumstances called for it. Will’s statement of... well, it was not the obvious— or was it?— is, like his sense of humor, horribly dark but well-timed. For a fleeting instant, I entertain letting the laughter escape, if only because I wonder how Will might react. 

Now, as I wait for Will’s return, I find myself bored. A hen and cock strut near the door, kicking up hay and dirt. I begin stroking a lamb’s wool, dipping my hand in a bag of feed to sneak it a small treat. The grains make a pleasant crinkling noise around my hand, the lamb perking up at the sound. I feed her until she’s close to licking my hand, then I shake the extra feed onto the ground and brush my hand on her wool again.  _ So like them, _ I think.  _ You do not know or care that your friend, the horse, is dead. If you had the capacity to befriend the horse, that is. You don’t even acknowledge the fact that this place now reeks of her blood. How rude.  _

The tang of blood grows much sharper then, followed by a horrendous ripping noise. The social worker emerges from the horse like a zombie or vampire from the grave, his hand clawing for purchase in a terrible parody that might have been funny had he not reeked upon his rebirth. 

“Mr. Ingram.” I pause, forcing back another laugh. “Might want to crawl back in there, if you know what’s good for you.”

He flashes me a confused look, then some sort of rage with the gore-slicked mallet in hand. A new, but familiar presence forces me to look back a moment. 

The avenging archangel had arrived, fiery sword drawn. This could be entertaining. 

Ingram drops to his knees in supplication. I half-want him to grab Will by the knees like a doomed suitor of Penelope before Odysseus. 

“Officer,” Ingram stutters, “I’m the victim here.”

“I’m not an officer,” Will says, “I’m Peter’s friend.”

Ah. This wasn’t even an execution then? It was revenge? 

Ingram attempts placations. “Peter’s confused.”

Will cocks the hammer back, the veins and muscles in his neck jumping. “I’m not. Pick up the hammer.” 

He gestures slightly with the gun, like a well-dressed, attractive bank-robber. His knuckles are white on the gun, tight on the trigger. He thinks he wants this, shaking with righteous anger. 

_ It won’t feel the same. He can’t. I can’t let him. It should feel as close as he can get. He’s called Jack, certainly. The alibi is weak. Shit. He can’t, not yet.  _

“Will.” I watch his concentration, his resolve, falter. It was just a moment. A chink in his holy armor. It could be enough. 

“Pick. It. Up.” 

I step close, but still speak loud enough for Ingram to hear. “It won’t feel the same. It won’t feel like killing me, Will.”

His finger tightens, his jaw shifts. He bats those ridiculously thick black lashes across similarly dark blue eyes.

“Doesn’t have to.” He blinks, swallowing. His voice is low, rough through his teeth. “It’ll still feel good.”  _ No argument there. _

Will shifts again, slightly, as taut as a bow string.  _ Where would this arrow strike? _

“If you’re going to do this…” I lean in close and drop to a whisper, so he feels my breath on his neck, “You have to do it for yourself.”

Will shudders with an exhale, gooseflesh raising the hairs on his neck, and I hope not from the cold nor adrenaline. The social worker bleats out a cry of mercy, shattering this moment. A hot flash of rage spikes in me. I consider killing him with the hammer myself as I turn to his disgusting, pitiful face. 

“You would be wise to remain silent, Mr. Ingram,” I spit, before turning back to Will again. “This is not the reckoning you promised yourself.”

He refuses to meet my eyes. He knows he will lose if he does. Somehow, the air between us grows tenser, hotter, electric-charged with the potential energy of a lightning storm. 

Ingram squeezes his eyes shut at the sound of a dull click. The hammer of the gun pinches my thumb. Will looks at me, surprised and enraged. And also pitiful, but in a different way than Ingram or any other chattel could look pitiful. I’m possessed by something, I don’t know who or what, to cup Will’s cheek.

A terrible heat rushes to the collar of my shirt the second I do. His cheek is ice cold under my fingers, yet the space between us is a veritable wall of fire. I say something to him about caterpillars and metamorphosis, something near-rambling I hardly comprehend myself, and I feel his shallow breaths on me. He doesn’t seem to notice my bullshit, the way he’s knocking me breathless with his divinity. His black lashes flutter with each heave of his chest. Everything around us falls away. I no longer notice the stench of the barn, or horse viscera, or Clark Ingram. I smell Will’s Old Spice aftershave, mixing with the sweet bite of heat and adrenaline. Will’s pulse jumps under my hand, his heart attempting to calm itself and adjust to this intimacy. I feel my own stutter against my ribs. Drafts of cold winter air waft in from the open barn door, but the small amount of air remaining between Will and I is inferno-hot. I can’t recall a time we’ve been so close, not since…

The first time I wanted to kiss him. In the dining room. What would his lips taste like now? Hellfire from Dante’s frozen ninth circle?  _ No. Don’t be poetic right now. _ I let myself stare, for just a moment. Wind-chafed, anxiety-bitten, pink. I run my thumb across Will’s cheekbone. Stretch the moment just a little longer. Would he taste of heat? Righteousness? I settle on the way a good scotch tastes; wood of the barrel, spices, perhaps. Then sweetness, heat, the burn of pleasure and almost-pain. 

I lean closer to Will, moving my touch from his jaw to the nape of his neck. Old Spice becomes almost overwhelming this close. I can’t lie that I hate it now. Like a cancer, it has grown on me. I take in a sharp, shallow breath centimeters from his face, meeting his eyes, dark as rain on a sunny day. He exhales nearly imperceptibly. I look at him again, swallow, give him time to end this. He flicks his gaze to me. 

The space between us, so small a moment ago, feels like a chasm when I lean down and press my lips to his. The gun falls to the ground as if it had never been in Will’s hand to begin with. So, so eager, this avenging angel is for his justice. Isn’t this just as sweet? Will’s grip is in the crook of my elbow, tight, strong. Is he kissing back? I can’t tell. He’s sighing, breathy, into my mouth. This I can feel, take into myself. I want to shove him into a barn stall and rip his clothes off and make him scream. I want him to make me a suppliant on my knees. I would, if it meant reliving this moment forever, like a silent film on loop.

Clark Ingram wheezes, then vomits. The vision is destroyed, dissipated like smoke in a room. Will steps away, shaking off the closeness, and yanks Ingram to his feet.

The night passes in a sluggish blur, repeating the same monologue to FBI agents. Hallucinating the taste of cinnamon candies, my imagined taste of Will, makes the overstimulating scent of barn and viscera slightly more bearable. Hours later, Ingram unfortunately in custody, I offer to drive Will home. He came here with me, he really has no other option. 

“Are we going to talk about that?” Will asks, about thirty minutes into the drive. I glance at him. The dashboard lights have painted him in cool blues. 

“About this case?” I say it more to the road than him. “What would you like to discuss?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Hannibal.” 

Will’s tone was harsh, venomous. I cut another glance at him and I’m met with the archangel. He’s enraged again, but not for the same reasons. 

I let my confusion show. “Really, Will. Tell me. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You kissed me, in the barn.”

_ Did I? Fuck. That happened. That was real. I did. He is extremely lucky we’re in the middle of nowhere. _ I know he catches me tense. He’ll see how I hold the steering wheel. His ability to catch these glimpses thrilled, enraged, and terrified me. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

My wrist jerks to the left, just slightly, pulling the car toward the center lane. A small movement hopefully imperceptible to anyone but myself. 

“Did you enjoy it?” I can’t look at him when I ask. 

It feels like a gun to the temple when he responds: “Answer the question.” 

I don’t. I wait for a small, dirt side-road, likely a private driveway, to appear at my right and turn into it sharply. Once we’re concealed by enough trees I cut the headlights, tempted to cut the engine completely. Will laughs dryly at this, pushes a shaky hand through his mess of curls. 

“This isn’t how I envisioned this scenario. I’d expect more propriety from you.”

“What?” My body snaps toward him. “I’m not going to kill you, Will. We’ve moved past that.”

He smiles wryly again, turning his body to face mine. He places one hand on the back of my seat, caging us in the confines of the front seat with his arm. It also acts as a lightning rod, filling the tiny space with massive amounts of electric charge. Will’s face is bathed in the soft neons of the dashboard. His eyes are black, fathomless as the night sky. Against all reason, against my grasp on reality, Will leans across and kisses me. 

His lips are more bitten now than before, more chafed from the winter wind. His stubble scratches my face in a way I didn’t notice the first time. His other hand is around the back of my neck, wrenching sighs from me that match to the pounding of my pulse. Will is messier, more forward, daring to let his back arch against the roof of the car as he climbs over the gearshift and offers gentle moans for me to take. I appreciate it, someone else being rude, daring to break things down and apart first sometimes. 

_ It feels like a hallucination, like a dream. God. Don’t let this be a dream. _

I feel my hands go under Will’s open suit jacket, less to steady him and more to give me something to hold on to. Ironic given he’s the one on  _ my  _ lap. It’s hot under the jacket and overcoat; I know my hands will feel cold. Perhaps he likes it, because I hear the leather crackle and his other hand is around my neck, in my hair. Perhaps he likes it because he growls and pants into my mouth when my hands brush his sides, his hips.

Will presses closer, presses my body into the leather seat. His hands hold my face, disturbingly gentle in contrast to the knock of his teeth on mine. 

“Seems you were right about my lack of propriety,” I whisper when he sucks at my neck, one hand braced on the seat. 

“Shut up,” Will growls. He grinds his other hand down in between my legs and bites at my neck at the same time. He laughs when my moan is cut with a hiss. I kiss him again, tearing off his overcoat and throwing it in the backseat. His hands are in my hair, nails tearing at my scalp. It doesn’t hurt, not in a bad way. 

The car rumbles, annoyed with idling. I slam Will into the steering wheel to fumble for the keys and wrench them from the ignition. I hear a sharp honk cut off by a groaned laugh from Will. If the pain knocked the air from him, he didn’t mention it. Will’s fingers pry at my tie, my shirt collar. I touch him through his trousers with the heel of my hand, rough, hungry. His fingers go unsteady, start shaking. His hands wrap around my throat, fingers lacing behind my neck, thumbs pushing under my jaw. He kisses me hard, harder than ever. It forces my grip into the soft flesh of his side and my touch between his legs to freeze for a millisecond, then resume faster, and with more pressure, than before. Will is groaning into my mouth in time with my hand, making me lightheaded, forcing starved whines from me— when sirens and flashing lights flood the car interior. 

As if we were hormone-flooded teenagers caught red-handed on a lover’s lane, Will separates from me, slamming his head on the roof in the process. While he groans, he brings his fingers to his lips and examines something. He flashes red-clear slicked fingers. I lick my lips, swallow. Blood. My own, or Will’s? I run my tongue over my lips to find a small hole or cut, just inside the edge of my lower lip.

“You must have bitten me by mistake when you heard sirens,” I tell him. He stares back, panting. Snow begins to fall on the steamed windshield, some flakes melting, others accumulating and obscuring the view outside. 

“Let’s– let’s get back. We have an early day tomorrow.” 

I silently start the car, put us back on the road. 

_ No, I don’t want this to end. It can’t just end. I don’t care if he isn’t ready yet. I can make him ready. I’ll make him ready for me, no matter what. _

As miles of white and yellow road paint passed under us in silence, I realize I was wrong before, about Will tasting like scotch and cinnamon. He does taste like frozen hellfire. 

**Author's Note:**

> I looked at a gif from the end of Su-zakana and IMMEDIATELY heard that tiktok sound "are we about to kiss right now???" "uh, no?" "...why not?" so I wrote this in 24 hours. Undying love to my besties gassing me up, telling me I WAS able to write Hannibal, despite the absolute brick-shitting fear of attempting to get behind the wheel of that crazy fruit's psyche for even a second to do him the justice he deserves. I love you all!! <3


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